I’ve got nothing to say today apart from the fact that I’m sorry and thank you so much for sticking around.
Christmas really knocked me. I didn’t cope as well as I thought I might; it wasn’t the perfect family Christmas that I had wanted.
It made me miserable. I have been miserable, and probably verging on the scrawny, since then. I have struggled, not because I had planned out my own relapse, but because I had forgotten how to try.
Sometimes, I get a bit self-satisfied in recovery. I ask why I should have to try in recovery. I claim that it’s not fair that I have to think about it every day. I reckon that it’s OK for me to jeopardise my health because I can’t be bothered to pull myself together. I forget that eating is both a necessity and something that is important not only to me, but to the people I live with; the people I work with and my friends.
There are times when I become complacent about getting better. I see myself as someone who never had an eating disorder, or was ‘never that bad’. I tell myself that I am well past the stage where I should be recovering, and I can just eat what I want to because I can trust my instincts to manage my weight now. I forget that, actually, anorexia is like a dog: once you’ve got it, it doesn’t go away. It’s an illness that doesn’t always show its face, but is perhaps more dangerous for its invisibility: when you can’t see it is when you forget it’s there, and that’s when you neglect to fight against it.
Often, recently, I have forgotten that recovery is a choice. It is not something that happens without making a conscious effort, nor is it a one time treatment. If there was a tablet, I’d take it. But there isn’t, so taking the hard (only) way out is the only option available, unless you count relapse or death, which I don’t or – rather – can’t.
And so, here I am. Back at square one, but not really, because I’ve got the insight and the understanding, but I’ve also got the job and the family and the friends. And I am lucky, because I still have time to make the choice. I still have time to grasp recovery with both hands and just flipping well get on with it. I still have time to take my head from up whichever orifice it has been firmly shoved and bump back to reality.
I will finish, then, by apologising once more. Anorexia doesn’t make me a nice person; Anorexia makes me a lazy, selfish person who can’t see in past the end of her nose. From here, I am going to try harder. I am going to make myself remember why I am doing this. I am going to make the choice even when I feel six months pregnant by lunchtime.
There will most likely be some people out there who think that this is unlikely, because I’ve been through making the choice before. However, it’s important to remember that nobody ever chooses recovery once: you choose it every time you eat and every time you lock yourself out of your own bathroom; every time you put your pyjamas on instead of insisting on a run and every time you look at yourself in the mirror before getting in the shower.
Making those choices is the only way out of here.
Follow me out: it gets easier.